Dear Evan Hansen tour review – voices you could listen to for forever

How do you break in a brand-new production of a modern classic?

Having found itself embarking on its first-ever UK tour, not too much has changed in this production of Dear Evan Hansen. Except perhaps the level of empathy we feel. Steven Levenson’s book remains the same; a lonely boy conjures up a fake relationship with a classmate who killed himself, and somehow ends up part of his family, while leading a school remembrance campaign. Or rather, as Jared summarises: “I can’t believe you tried to kiss Zoe Murphy, on her brother’s bed, after he died.”

Performed in a boxed-out stage, the sides and ceiling are lined with mirrors that nobody stops to observe themselves in. Morgan Large’s design instead forces us to see different fragments of the families played out in front of us – fractured parts of the Murphy’s as they process grief and regrets, glimpses of a distracted, busy mum simply trying her best, and a solo Evan, as his self-gain agenda becomes his undoing. Sliding glass windows, grubbily marked to make them blur, shut off an idyllic representation of the outside world; backdrop videos of literal and unaffecting ombre blue skies, busy cities and trees (designed by Ravi Deepres).

At the centre of Adam Penford’s production is a gentler Evan than in past iterations which shifts the tone slightly. In the title role, Ryan Kopel bashfully rambles about clammy hands and awkwardly grimaces at his attempts to socialise. It’s a relentless physical role and Kopel wholly embodies it with tensed shoulders, picked nails, and tears in his eyes. Relentless emotionally, too. Evan’s skewed moral compass points him in every direction as he swallows storms, yet Kopel’s voice sounds calmer than those who have come before him. His “Waving Through a Window” is crystal clear, and his shimmering “Words Fail” is controlled right until it unravels, while the stage opens wide as if a crack has appeared.

He’s supported spectacularly by Lauren Conroy as love interest Zoe, whose spiky exterior slowly softens, and her spiraling “Requiem” is quietly heart-breaking. Respite laughs come from a strong supporting cast in the form of Vivian Panka as straight-talking “close acquaintance” Alana, and Tom Dickerson as “family friend” Jared. Along with Killian Thomas Lefevre as a resurrected puppet-on-a-string Connor, Dickerson serves up an early showstopper with “Sincerely, Me!”, filled with candid sex jokes and frank observations disguised in syrupy show tune and self-awareness.

The Benj Pasek and Justin Paul score, which earned them both the G and the T in their EGOT, sounds as good as ever in the hands of a band directed by Michael Bradley. The soaring romanticism of “For Forever” and rousing swell of act one closer “You Will Be Found” (accompanied here by a severely underused ensemble for the first time) crash and fall into tender moments like Alice Fearn’s vulnerable “So Big/So Small” and Richard Hurst’s stolen moment “To Break in a Glove”. While the focus is often on the teens, the adults (with Helen Anker) underpin Dear Evan Hansen.

Perhaps as time passes, audiences have or will become more desensitised to Evan’s scheme. Here, we’re never really sure if the high schoolers are in the same room as each other as they converse, instead a message tone marks the end of a conversation before a spotlight turns off. They sometimes speak directly to the shadowed audience, seeking guidance. It makes the family focus scenes around a kitchen table all the more gutting. The absence of Evan’s iconic blue polo goes some way to suggest that anybody could find themselves trapped in a web that spirals before their eyes.